Committed fighters in ragtag army seen as defenders in Darfur region

By Sudarsan Raghavan
Knight Ridder Newspapers

SUDARSAN RAGHAVAN / KNIGHT RIDDER NEWSPAPERS Rebels in Darfur clean their weapons. The region is brimming with arms from previous wars. The rebels say they've snatched many from government soldiers. Fighters wear grenade belts, clutch Kalashnikov rifles and U.S.-made grenade launchers.

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HANGALA, Sudan — Kongo's thin, wiry body is an emblem of his rebel cause. His left eye, hidden behind fake Ray-Bans, is a dark, puffy recess — the entry point of a bullet during a battle against Sudanese troops. The bullet came out his now-disfigured jaw.

His neck is weighed down by strings of amulets in leather boxes that hold pieces of the Quran, Islam's holy book. They divert bullets, he said confidently — despite the evidence to the contrary.

His black boots and camouflage fatigues were stolen from a dead government soldier. "The only language they understand is the gun," he said of his Arab enemy.

Kongo, whose real name is Kitir Zakariya, is a commander in the Sudan Liberation Army (SLA), one of the two armed rebel groups fighting in the country's sprawling Darfur region.

With the international community stymied about how to stop what many think is a government-backed campaign to drive black tribes from Darfur, the Sudan Liberation Army has become the only defense for many people against the Janjaweed Arab militia and bombing raids by government planes.

A week spent with the fighters reveals a ragtag army fueled by superstition and beset by disorganization, poor equipment and little training.

Yet what they lack in supplies and experience, they make up in fighting spirit born from what they claim has been decades of marginalization at the hands of Arabs. They've taken over large swaths of Darfur and, with international pressure, forced the government to the negotiating table.

Some leaders speak in nationalist terms, talking about protecting "Dar-Zaghawa," the homeland of the Zaghawa, one of Darfur's black tribes and the one most Sudan Liberation Army rebels belong to. Watches are set an hour behind Khartoum, Sudan's capital, to "SLA time."

"All I want is justice, for our people to get their rights," said Kongo, 30, whose nom de guerre means "the man who walks with a swagger" in the Zaghawa language, a reference to his reputed bravery in battle.

"If the SLA is here, the Janjaweed don't come here," said Ismael Hagar, 25, a teacher in Shigakaro, about 70 miles east of the Chad border. "But we are still afraid of the air attacks."

The Sudan Liberation Army launched its uprising 18 months ago, and the government recruited the Janjaweed to quell it. According to the United Nations, the militia instead embarked on an ethnic-cleansing campaign, killing, raping and looting black African villages. An estimated 30,000 have been killed, and more than a million driven from their homes.

Fewer atrocities

While the rebels have violated cease-fires, they've committed far fewer atrocities than the Janjaweed, human-rights activists widely say.

Near the razed village of Hangala, about 45 miles east of the Chad border, a dozen decomposing bodies were scattered on a reddish hillside, preserved by the scorching sun. Their faces appeared frozen in the moment of death.

Skulls were shattered, as if shot in the head. All had white, full-length garments, worn by most Sudanese men.

The rebels claim they were executed by Janjaweed several months ago. Human Rights Watch investigators who also saw the bodies said they found this credible.

"We don't want to bury them," said Hassan Azadine, 68, a villager, as he stared at the corpses. "We want everyone to come and see."

Kongo made it clear that resentment of Arabs fuels his campaign. He came from a Zaghawa herding family in the village of Abu Ghamra, about 100 miles from the Chad border. He never associated with Arabs, never praying at mosques with them, never attending school with them.

"They were so arrogant. They felt so superior," he said as he lounged under a thorny tree less than a mile from the Chad border. "I never had any Arab friends."

Other rebels said they grew up in an era of intense conflict between Arab nomads and black farmers over land and water, made more scarce by the spreading Sahara Desert. So it was natural to wage war.

"To me fighting is not a new thing," said Jabir Ishag, 28, who had a thin moustache, high cheekbones and bullet fragments in his right leg.

"Since my childhood, my elder brothers used to fight the Arabs to defend our herds. We were always anticipating attacks by Arabs."

Hari Fadhul joined the rebels three months ago, shortly after the Janjaweed raided Abu Ghamra. He said he was 18, but he looked younger.

"I saw my village burned," Fadhul said. "Dead bodies were everywhere."

Kongo said he hadn't seen his wife and child in more than a year: "I'm married to my troops," he said.

Home is a camp in empty, burned-out villages or under skeletal trees. Bed is a blanket on hard ground crawling with large beetles and scorpions. A tarpaulin shields them from rain and sandstorms that turn the sky orange.

Dinner is usually a thick porridge called assida, made mostly from okra, and washed down with tea.

They drink from dry creeks called wadis that fill up with muddy water during the rainy season.

One thing that's abundant is weapons. The region is brimming with arms from previous wars, and the rebels say they've snatched many from government soldiers. Fellow Zaghawa in Chad and elsewhere are also thought to be helping them.

Fighters wear grenade belts and clutch aging Kalashnikov rifles, Belgian assault rifles and American-made grenade launchers. Kongo sported a silver pistol in a leather hip holster, tucked under the mound of amulets.

They drive stolen pickups mounted with large machine guns and rocket-propelled grenades. Gas and supplies are bought in Chad and smuggled across its weakly patrolled border.

Patchwork force

Still, they're a patchwork force. In one camp, four vehicles wouldn't run. And a Toyota Land Cruiser that was carrying journalists, which was stolen from a government official, broke down every few miles, forcing its occupants to push-start it.

None of the fighters received any organized training. And there was little evidence of central control.

But they have the reputation of being tremendous fighters. They get pumped up listening to tapes of women singing of their glory.

Their most famous raid was on the airport of al Fashir, a government-held town nearly 700 miles west of Khartoum, in April 2003. They destroyed buildings and aircraft and abducted a general.

Three months later, in a battle in an area called Gabujon, the bullet tore into Cmdr. Kongo's eye and out his jaw. He was in a coma for a week.

That hasn't deterred him.

"Nobody wants to die," Kongo said. "But when you have a cause you believe in, what can you do? If you die, then this is the way."

Copyright © 2004 The Seattle Times Company

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